


A North Star to Lead the Way Home

by StimmyMage



Series: Falling Stars [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Muggle, M/M, Misgendering, Peter lives in a world where he won't be killed or tortured so I say he gets some character growth, Tagged to be safe, Trans!Sirius, Transphobia, as a treat, genderqueer!Remus, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StimmyMage/pseuds/StimmyMage
Summary: Sirius discovers who he wants to be for the first time at university, away from his uber-wealthy and abusive family. He also might be falling for the glamorous person who is his roommate. Meanwhile, his best friend James' roommate Peter--who they only hang out with in the first place because he lives there--betrays them to save himself.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Falling Stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702165
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. The Misfit Daughter

Lyra Black couldn’t wait to leave for college. She would have taken any excuse at all to leave home, but college was as good as any. She rested her head back against the edge of her bed and closed her eyes, listening to the tittering chatter from downstairs. Her mother and aunt, high society ladies with An Image to Maintain. Her cousins, the perfect daughters her mother had always wanted. Bella, with the haughty superiority of an heir, having moved back home after college. Mia, the picture of a hostess, better than everyone by merit alone without having to remind them of that fact and having skipped college altogether to be a Lady. And Cissy, still in high school, with  pretty blond curls and perfect makeup and a quiet smile as everyone talked around her. They were too far away for Lyra to hear their words, but she could imagine them—pointless inane babble. And a slightly deeper tone, her little brother Reg. She could picture him in his usual slacks and a formal shirt that looked odd on a gawky high schooler, his hair perfectly combed, saying just what Mother expected. The one who should have been older, should have been her heir.

It wasn’t fair.

She hated it here. Anyone sane—which obviously excluded her brother and cousins—would hate it here. But if she had to be stuck with this life, why couldn’t she have at least been a boy? It just seemed easier. Clothes more comfortable and less varied. No stupid beauty expectations like makeup and shaving. Not being stuck at dumb parties. Boring talk of finances seemed preferable to boring talk of fashion. At least she knew a little about sports.

“Lyra, Dear!” Her mother’s voice was sharp as ice. “Come here, please!”

She stood automatically to obey, before her brain could even catch up enough to be annoyed at having to leave her room, the one place that was just hers. It was just organized enough that she could find things, but still messy enough that it didn’t feel like a magazine picture. With long practice, her shoulders slumped, her band t-shirt shifting over her chest. She stuffed her hands—nails painted black—into the pockets of the cargo pants that conveniently hid her curvy parts. Her one concession to womanhood—hatred of her body and the way it squished and curved. Something else she might have avoided as a boy.

Her black hair was cut unevenly so it hung over her  heavily-lined eyes. Anything to annoy her mother.

She slumped down the spiral staircase—marble steps, oak railing, walls lined with foreign tapestries. Her family was gathered in the sitting room on the vintage straight-backed chairs she despised.

“Yes, Mom?”

Lyra had to fight a smile as her mother sniffed in disdain at the common moniker.

“I was just telling everyone about our shopping trip this weekend. We’ve got to get  you some proper clothes for university. This isn’t primary school anymore, Honey, and your image matters now. The girls have offered to come with us, make it a family thing so we’ve all got new Fall clothes! Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

Lyra glanced quickly around the room. Bella looked smug, thinking she deserved the humiliation for her crimes against fashion and the Family Image, probably. Mia was looking at her with maddening pity, surely thinking she could be taught to be better. Cissy was still smiling sweetly into the distance, as though she hadn’t heard. Reg avoided her gaze.

“Yeah. Lovely.” She wasn’t sure anyone heard the sarcasm, but she didn’t stay to be sure. Before anyone could protest, she was out the front door—heavy oak to match the railings—and down the driveway.

It would have been much more dramatic if they had lived closer to the road—by the time she reached the actual sidewalk, she was walking normally and briskly—but it was still good to be outside where she could breathe. Even if her breathes were more like huffs of rage.

She rode the bus across town to the suburbs. She didn’t need to ride the bus, she could have taken a cab or even walked, but she would take her rebellions where she could get them. Her mother would have been horrified to see her on public transportation, and the thought alone made her relax. It was nice to be as invisible as the next person, leaning against the cool window and staring blankly out at the drizzly day.

James’ house was only a block from the bus stop, and Lyra jogged most of the way. She’d made friends with him in sixth grade as the only kid at her private school whose status was low enough to make her mother uncomfortable but high enough that it would be embarrassing to outright ban their friendship (his parents paid for his tuition but had to give up some things to afford it). Two months later, they’d been  inseparable and she had learned what happiness felt like when he showed her the rope swing into the river in his neighborhood. By the end of the year, they had a reputation for being pranksters and rebels.

That was almost seven years ago. The door swung open before Lyra even touched the bell, and Mrs. Potter greeted her with a warm hug and an invitation to have some cookies. She did, gladly. Her mother would not have approved. But also, they were just damn good cookies. Mrs. Potter was heavyset with smooth brown skin and a long black braid and wore soft sweaters and loose jeans, but she never commented on Lyra’s eyeliner or baggy clothes. Not even when she wore clothes that Mrs. Potter had to recognize as having come from her son’s closet.

She would never tell anyone how close she had come to calling Mrs. Potter ‘Mom’ and meaning it.

After a polite thank you and rather impolite gobbling, she ran unbidden up the stairs to James’ room. Piles of clothes were everywhere, soccer posters hung haphazard on the walls, and somewhere in the middle of all of it he lounged with a game controller and popcorn. He was stick-thin with wildly messy black hair and big round  glasses. “Hey , man! Was starting to worry you’d been locked up and I was  gonna have to jailbreak you.”

“ Nahh . ‘Sides, I could jailbreak myself. What’re you playing?”

James started talking about the fighting game she’d never have been allowed, and Lyra slowly relaxed, not really listening, sprawled on the bed behind him. “Oh, your mom made cookies.”

“Yeah,” James laughed, “And you can have them whenever and I can have them after dinner.” But he wasn’t really annoyed. She got the love of being in the family and the favors of being a guest, but that was fine. It was just how they lived.

Dinner was curry and the house  was filled with laughter and spice. Lyra rarely spoke unless she could talk one-on-one, but she sat back and enjoyed the feel of a home. The floral wallpaper was tacky and the table was a shade off from the chairs. It was glorious. But the best part was James telling his parents all about the latest sports news and soccer players. His mother nodded absently, but still listened, and his father actually knew enough to ask questions.

After dinner, Lyra asked to stay the night. No one asked if it was ok with her parents. When they were back in his room, James finally looked serious. “So what was it now?”

“They’re taking me shopping. For school clothes. With  all of the cousins.”

“Ugh. I’m sorry, man. Can you get out of it?”

“No chance. Mother really wants me to maintain my  _ image  _ at university.”

“So, you’re going to...?”

“Your cousin need some new brand names?”

James sat backwards in his chair and snorted, “I think her closet’s overflowing. And Aunt Abby has started asking questions.”

“Well, we could always have a pre-college bonfire.”

“Hell, yeah!” He  whooped .

Lyra felt a little better. She could get through a day with her nitpicking mother and too-perfect cousins if she spent it imagining the lace and ruffles curling and burning in James’ backyard the next week.

Three more weeks to freedom.


	2. School Shopping

The Blacks did not shop at the mall. The Blacks shopped at upscale stores that only sold the finest, most expensive, and trendiest clothes. When they were little, Lyra and Regulus used to giggle about it together and beg their mother for t-shirts with robots on them. Sometime around middle school, when Lyra was starting high school, Reg had changed and started dressing every day like he was a businessman or going to  prom, and scoffed at her continued rebellion. By then, his mother considered him too old to go on shopping trips with the women anyway.

Lyra didn’t like her cousins. She never really had. Bellatrix, six years older than her, used to yell at and bully all the others and since growing up only cast disdainful looks at Lyra. She wore lots of black and lots of lace, but never heels. She also liked eyeliner and lipstick a shade or two too dark to be appropriate. Andromeda, two years older than her, had been a sweet kid who had grown into a sweet woman, but Lyra had always felt she was too saccharine to be real, and worked too hard to be the perfect kid while everyone else was a mess. She wore proper, somber clothes and subtle makeup. She rarely  smiled, but said all the right things all the time. And Narcissa, two years younger than Lyra, had always been odd and a little creepy. She Smiled vaguely into the distance and never looked anyone in the eye. She liked to wear pastel clothes trimmed in lace, short skirts and paper-thin shirts and six-inch heels.

And right now, they were all stuffed into a store smaller than their sitting room.

Lyra leaned against a display of knee socks and idly watched the other girls. It didn’t seem like the three sisters were any more interested in talking to each other than they were to her. Bella was pacing almost wildly between displays, never touching anything, and rubbing her fingers together. Mia sat on one of the benches absently holding up a blouse. And Cissy hovered behind her mother, accepting clothes and jewelry as they were handed to her. Lyra’s mother and aunt were discussing the latest fashions and what was appropriate for their daughters. For once, no one looked at her.

The wall behind Lyra’s display was a row of men’s shirts in blues and whites and the occasional gold or purple. She was entertaining herself by imagining James trying them on and the comments he’d make. “Why yes, I’ll have the champagne. Or is the wine more expensive? What’s the difference anyway, Jeeves?” In short, they were ridiculous. His mother let him wear whatever he wanted as long as it didn’t have curses or drugs on it.

“Lyra, Dear, you should get a say in what you wear. It’s your college experience, after all, and if you’re  _ luckier _ , you might come away with a man,” Her aunt was speaking to her but casting a dark look across the  room at Bella. “Which do you like better?”

She was holding up a gold and black silk romper in one hand and a lime-colored cocktail dress with tassels instead of sleeves in the other. Lyra wanted to gag. Even Cissy looked dubious. She was about to say she didn’t care, just pick one, but her mother, standing behind the other two, had a dangerously frozen smile. She had long since given up on any participation from Lyra in her wardrobe choices (after much yelling this morning, she was wearing plain jeans and a purple  v-neck blouse), but there would be hell to pay if Lyra embarrassed her in front of her judgmental sister-in-law.

She wouldn’t smile. But, after several long moments, she pointed at one at random, which happened to be the cocktail dress. “Oh, that’s lovely, dear. It’ll really show off your figure. But you’d better try it on. Can you imagine getting home and it won’t zip?”

Her Aunt  Druella wasn’t really that stupid. Any of her daughters would have hardly dared to think it in a whisper, but she was just that cruel. And she knew her sister-in-law would go along with most anything to please her and prove herself worthy of the Black name.

Alone in the changing room, Lyra took as much time as she dared. She took off her baggy jeans and folded them on the bench, followed by her shirt. Her reflection for the moment wasn’t  really so bad. It was never as bad looking in the mirror as it was imagining her curves in her mind. She had only worn sports bras since eighth grade despite the lacy lingerie her mother kept buying, and at some  point James had given her a pack of boxers his mom had bought for him. This  particular bra was neon yellow, the boxers red and purple plaid. She  actually liked colors. It was just that she couldn’t be seen in them. Black felt like wrapping herself in a shield against judging eyes.

She  slowing peeled on the dress. You could  really only peel things off, of course, but that was the only apt verb that came to her mind. It barely stretched over her hips and ribs. After a few minutes of fighting with the zipper, it turned out that it did fit her.  That is to say, she could get it on. The girl in the mirror looked all disproportional. The boxers bunched visibly across her thighs despite her attempts to smooth them, the yellow bra straps were hanging out in the wide neckline, and it felt like someone had painted a rude sign pointing to her chest. The color would have been hideous even on someone as slender and graceful as Narcissa.

She considered, for just a moment, calling out that it fit fine and tearing it back off, but that would never fly. So, cringing, she pushed open the fitting room door. The only tiny relief was that the only people close enough to see her were her family, and no strangers would witness her shame. Mia looked away like she was trying hard to not to laugh. Bella didn’t even pretend to hide it, doubling over with the hilarity. Lyra shuffled her feet and twisted her hands, staring only at her mother.

There had been a time before this. A time when her mother wanted her to be normal and still thought that was possible, so she would kiss her head and praise her  occasionally for doing things right and, for all her harshness, didn’t try to humiliate her. Now her eyes were wide with horror, her lip twisted almost  grotesquely .

“Oh, lovely, dear,”  Druella smirked coldly. “I do hope to see you in it at the late summer garden party.”

With a quiet squeak of mortification, Lyra ducked back into the dressing room. She took one last glance at the horrible, curvy, lumpy outfit in the mirror and made a promise to herself that it would be the last dress she ever wore. She crumpled it into a pile on the floor as she pulled her own clothes back on, then realized that would make was coming even worse and put it back on the hanger.

She liked to pretend that her mother didn’t get to her anymore, but the cold lump in her stomach said otherwise. The feeling only got worse as her mother didn’t say another word to her while they checked out and said goodbye to the others. Only after she had handed off the bags to Ralph (the bodyguard who used to sneak Lyra cookies when her mother made her diet) to put in the trunk and they were sitting in the back of the Mercedes with Jenson (who James insisted should be called Jeeves) driving them home, did she turn and release the storm.

“How  _ dare  _ you??”

She didn’t like the way she flinched or the instinct to shrink back. She hated her own weakness. “What did I do? I put on the dress. I didn’t even argue.”

“What did you  _ do _ ? It’s hardly the most fashionable thing you could have worn, I’ll admit I don’t always understand  Druella’s taste, but it would have at least  _ fit  _ if you’d wear proper underthings! You’ll wear it to her party next week with appropriate underwear, you’ll smile and be gracious, or I swear you’ll never see what a college looks like!”

It went on like that for a while, and once she realized that was it for today her heart slowed and she tuned it out, watching the city pass them by and idly wondering about all the other people’s lives. The second they were home, she took her bag of clothes to her room, almost knocking Reg over on the stairs, and dumped them on the floor. Most of them really wouldn’t have been that bad if she was someone else—floral blouses and ruffled skirts—but that dress seemed to mock her. She hesitated only a second, afraid of being stuck here, before deciding that if her mother really did try to ban her from college she would just run away to James’ family. Grabbing a pair of scissors off her desk, she cut the dress into neat lime-colored strips.

Two more weeks to freedom.


	3. Getting Fired Up

Lyra was hiding. She had come to the garden party. She had not worn the dress, which was currently in pieces in the bottom of her backpack. She had just shrugged when her mother asked her about it, but by then they were almost  late and she didn’t have time for a fight. Lyra was, for all her issues, good with timing. And so here she was, standing in her aunt’s backyard in her mother’s business slacks and an only slightly ruffled black blouse. There was light laughter coming from the women and girls with big white sunhats and gloves and dresses way too formal for a Saturday afternoon. Lyra stood unnoticed behind a pink garden shed, close enough to the corner to watch for anyone coming, but no one wanted to know where she was or what she was doing.

The phone in her pocket buzzed. She had to force her voice above a whisper, “Hey, man.”

“Hey!” James’ voice was always bright and loud and solid, not airy or pastel or even a little fake.

“What’s up? I can’t really talk, I’m at this stupid family thing.”

“Oh. Any chance of a bonfire tonight?”

She barely hesitated. “Hell yeah!”

“But didn’t you just say you’re stuck there? It’s fine if you wanna come over tomorrow.”

“No. They don’t control me. I’ll be there tonight.”

“Cool, see you!”

Lyra ignored the sunken feeling in her stomach that still accompanied disobedience, and crawled around the hedges to reach the porch without being noticed. She had thought that her aunt’s house would be empty, with everyone chatting and pretending to eat outside. She could sit in the quiet on one of the chairs that looked too nice to  use, and plan the trouble she’d get into at school. She wasn’t expecting her cousins to be sitting in the hallway. Cissy—the ever-polished perfectly dressed princess—was wearing an ugly green smock over a plain skirt and curled into the corner, mascara and tears covering her face. Lyra noted absently that she had never seen her wear a ponytail before. Or, for that matter, show more emotion than a vacant laugh or flash of discomfort. Mia knelt next to her sister, all concern and care. She wore the type of clothes that Lyra would have thought she might prefer, but that her mother would surely not have approved off—loose jeans and a  v-neck shirt with constellations on it.

They stared at her. Cissy stopped sniffling. Lyra stared back. She couldn’t remember either girl ever looking so human. “You do know your mother is having a party, right? Does she know you’re in here?” It wasn’t the right thing to say, but she wasn’t sure there  _ was  _ a right thing to say.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cissy sneered through her tears.

“Please don’t tell.” Mia’s voice was soft. “You’re doing the same thing.”

“Yeah, but.”  _ But that’s what I do. You’re supposed to be good. _ It occurred to Lyra for the first time that maybe her cousins weren’t monsters, or at least not much more than she was. She shrugged. “Whatever. I won’t tell.”

She left quickly, not giving them a chance to think she was being weak  or, worse, thank her. But the sitting room she had been aiming for was at the end of that hall, not fully out of sight, so instead she burst out the front door. It was still afternoon, nowhere near dark or late enough for a bonfire. She had nowhere to be. But she was done lurking in houses of finery and backstabbers. That sounded overdramatic, like something out of a regency novel, but it wasn’t strictly untrue.

She wandered until she got tired, then found herself sitting on a curb. She checked her phone. It had been over an hour. Maybe she would go back, just to see if they had any good food; she’d gotten up too late to eat breakfast. She hadn’t quite decided whether it would be worth dealing with her mother, when her phone buzzed again.

It was her mother.

Who had insisted on having her phone number.

Who had never lowered herself to using it.

Maybe she had decided to get her in more trouble than she ever had before, to keep her at home.

“Hello?” She wasn’t proud of the slight tremor in her voice.

“Where are you?”

“I went for a walk—”

“Get back here now!” She hung up without waiting for an answer.

It didn’t occur to Lyra until she had run, shaking, most of the way that her mother’s shriek had sounded closer to frightened than angry.

She smelled the smoke a block away. She saw flames licking up from the mansion half a block away. She pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, staring in amazement. Unlike her  family's house, her  aunt’s was in something of a neighborhood, albeit one with forty-room houses spread at least half a mile apart from one another.

Her family and the other guests stood in the middle of the street. Her mother had her arms around her aunt, who was sobbing dramatically. Reg, who  actually had been sitting with the grownups, was awkwardly trying to comfort Cissy on the curb. She had taken off the  smock, but was still wearing an uncharacteristically plain and modest brown skirt and blouse. Mia was staring wide-eyed, hands stuffed into the pockets of her oversized jeans. At first Bella didn’t seem to be there, and Lyra wondered briefly how sorry she’d feel for the mean thoughts if she was dead.

But no, she was sitting sullenly on the back of an  ambulance , swatting EMTs away. Lyra heard later that she had been found upstairs in her bedroom, passed out from taking so many pills, and that her  cigarette had lit the curtains on fire and started the whole thing.

They were told this in the back of the car by their mother, who was trembling. “I’m so glad everyone got out and that you weren’t there, dear.” Lyra was shocked to find she believed her.

They’d gone home hours earlier than expected, and to everyone’s horror her aunt, uncle, and cousins would be staying with them until their house was rebuilt. Uncle Cygnus was away on business that month, but that still added four people, making even a mansion seem crowded. While everyone else huddled anxiously downstairs, Lyra bolted up to hide in her room. No shrill voice tried to stop her, but  after less than ten minutes of zoning out with music, someone knocked on the door.

Today was not the day to risk demanding they go away. “What?”

The door opened slowly, and Lyra was surprised when it revealed Reg. He hadn’t been in her room in years.  Actually, they had barely spoken the last few years.

This was interesting enough to pause her music, and at least he was unlikely to yell at her. He considered himself above having to raise his voice. “What’s up? Did Mom send you?”

He had taken off his sports jacket and untucked his shirt, and it wasn’t like him to slouch so much. “She doesn’t like us to call her that. Sorry, I mean, no. It’s...there’s too many people downstairs. May I come in?”

“I guess.”

She sat up on the bed while he hovered, looking around at the mess and the bare walls.  Finally he realized she wasn’t going to invite him to sit and moved the pile on her unused desk chair so he could perch on its edge. “Bella didn’t seem that sorry.”

He’d said it as though he’d been running it around in his mind all afternoon, but it seemed clear enough to her. “Bella’s never sorry for anything. She probably doesn’t care.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” he sounded hurt, “Everyone cares. And if she really didn’t, she’d talk to Aunt  Druella the way she does to us and wear the shit she used to wear at school.”

Lyra knew that in school, Bella used to wear tight black clothes, torn stockings, black lipstick. She’d put it on in the bathroom while buses were still arriving, and skip half of last period to change back. She was surprised that Regulus, nine years younger than Bellatrix, remembered. But she was much more surprised that he’d cursed twice in one sentence. She hadn’t heard him say a single bad word since they had first started learning them from Bella’s older friends. They used to sit in the closet and whisper-cuss at each other, giggling. But it wasn’t proper for the heir apparent (no one would trust Lyra to run anything) of a great business and estate.

She stared at him so long he looked away. “What?”

“I can’t remember the last time I heard you curse.” That wasn’t true. He’d told her to get the fuck out of his room in 6 th grade and that was the last time she’d tried to be a team with him.

“I do. Mostly in my head. You can think whatever you want, just don’t let them see you. Father’s lessons actually do work.”

“Oh. Um...I still think Bella doesn’t care about us or her family or anything else. But if she did, I think it’s normal not to at first. She’d be in shock.”

“I know what shock is, Ly. But I don’t think so. She didn’t look scared or sorry, but she did look...something.  Disappointed ? I don’t know.”

“You think she was trying to hurt everyone?”

“No! I mean, I don’t know what I think. Wasn’t everyone out back? Pretty terrible murder scheme, even if she was high. No, you’re right. She got high and set a fire and probably is just sad about her things. But, Ly? I’m glad you let me in. I’ve missed talking.”

Lyra barely remembered to say that she had, too. An idea of what Bella might be  disappointed about had just occurred to her, and she really didn’t want to think of her evil cousin as so human.

She ignored the looks of disapproval and skipped dinner to go to James’. She’d ended up talking to Reg until the servants served the food, so she had to take a cab. They hadn’t talked about anything important like their family or college, but just whatever came to mind—the books he was assigned in school, how hot the summer was, meaningless things like that. But it had been  nice and she hadn’t wanted to stop, even if it made her late.

When the cab pulled up to the Potters’, James was pacing the sidewalk and Mrs. Potter  was sitting on the porch swing. James almost knocked her over with his hug. “You said you were at this family thing, and we saw on the news your aunt’s house burned down. Goddamn, don’t scare me like that. I thought for a moment I’d have to make a new best friend at college.”

Mrs. Potter waited for her son to move before  enveloping Lyra in her own hug. “Don’t let him fool you. He was begging me to call the police to see if you’d been hurt or—” she seemed to catch herself, “Or if anything else had happened. I thought about it, too.”

“Thank for caring. I’m sorry to have worried you. I...it was a weird day. But I’m ok. I wasn’t even there.”

“We don’t have to do a bonfire,” James brought up helpfully. “We could just play video games or something.”

“Nah, that’s ok. I love  our bonfires . And like I said, I wasn’t even at the house when it happened.  But, er, Mrs. Potter?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I don’t suppose you were going to make cookies or anything? I hate to ask, but the house caught  fire so I didn’t even get any cucumber sandwiches.” She hadn’t eaten at all that day.

“Oh! You should have some real food too, but of course I’ll make cookies. You kids go on out back and I’ll bring them out.”

“Thank you, Ma’am!”

The Potters’ backyard was large for a house in the city. When James was in middle school, his father had helped him build a fire pit right in the middle of it, surrounded by big stones and logs for sitting. James had clearly spent the afternoon  stacking it with wood for their bonfire. “What’ve you got for me?”

“I didn’t actually bring as much as I meant to. I got sidetracked, for obvious reasons. But I do have what’s left of the ugliest dress you can imagine.”

“I  dunno , my imagination is pretty good.”

Lyra scoffed and dug through her backpack for the  green strips. She never let her bag out of her  sight, and was probably the only one not to lose anything in the fire. She straightened, throwing handfuls of slightly stained neon fabric on top of the wood.

“That was a  _ dress _ ?”

Lyra couldn’t help grinning at his expression. They spent the evening eating and stoking the fire whenever it burned below eye level.  Some time after dark they got bored of that and played what they had termed ultimate tag, which involved leaping fences and climbing trees and angering neighbors. Mrs. Potter never seemed too offended (“Hell, she’d let you get away with murder,” James grumbled). Eventually, a little after ten, Lyra thanked Mrs. Potter and said tonight was probably a bad night to stay over but she’d be back the next day.

She walked home. The night was warm, the breeze ruffled her hair, and her favorite  shortcut involved jumping a stream and ducking under the back hedges. Normally, had she come home at almost eleven, everyone would have been in bed. As it was, they were all still up. She tried to slip upstairs  unnoticed , but her mother called her back.

“Would you be kind, dear, and lend your cousins some clothes?”

“I’d rather die.” Cissy seemed unusually present as she looked Lyra up and down. “I’ll just...keep wearing this.”

“They wouldn’t fit you anyway.” It wasn’t a particularly harsh retort, but she was too tired to have much fight in her. “ Er . Maybe for Mia, though.”

She got up silently to follow Lyra. Bella hadn’t moved this entire time, staring—not glaring—into the dark drive out the window.

Upstairs, Mia didn’t flinch at the state of Lyra’s room. Her composure was perfect, as always. Almost always. “Mother would not allow me to leave my things...out of order.”

Lyra shrugged, “I think she just gave up on me. Got a problem, or would you like some clean clothes?”

“Oh, no! I’m impressed. I wouldn’t dare make a mess. And yes, please. I don’t really care what they are, I just don’t want to put this back on in the morning.”

She was being nice. She was always nice, but this was the most they had spoken in years. And Lyra felt bad for her. She  actually dug to the back of her closet for the clothes she’d meant to burn. They would just sit here anyway, because she was never coming back. “Here. There’s probably something acceptable there.”

Mia dug through the trash bag, through blouses and skirts and slacks. To Lara’s confusion, her face held disappointment. “I’m sorry if they aren’t your style,” she meant it to be genuine, but her voice sounded sharp and Mia flinched.

“No. It’s very generous. Just...I was wondering if I could try some of your actual clothes. The ones you wear, I mean.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?” A dozen questions had flown into her head, but this one always made it out on top.

“Not this week. And we can say it’s all you have clean. I wouldn’t be as brave as you, but I’ve always been a little jealous. You look comfy.”

“Er. Ok, sure. You really don’t think my clothes are horrifying?”

“Have I ever given you a hard time?”

She hadn’t, and Lyra had nothing to say to that. She handed Mia a pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a faded band shirt, then turned away while she changed.

Lyra told everyone she was tired and went to bed a few minutes after that. She wasn’t asked to let anyone sleep in her room. She lay awake for a long time, listening to her standard metal music and looking at the stars out her window.

She was never coming back.

She couldn’t wait.

What if she was the only one who got out?

She had never considered her cousins’ and brother’s futures before. She’d always been focused on leaving, and she suddenly felt bad about that.

She went down to breakfast the next day late, by her family’s standards, and everyone else was already seated at the table. Mia, wearing the clothes she’d borrowed, was openly crying. Lyra thought she’d seen her cry, once, in elementary school. She was Miss Perfect Composure.

“It was an accident, you know it was, you don’t have to do this. Please!”

“I lost my house, Andromeda. I lost my clothes and jewels and makeup. My garden is ruined. This is too much to overlook.”

Bella, in the same outfit as yesterday, was slumped in her seat with her chin in her hand and her elbow on the table. She seemed to be watching the exchange with interest.

“Please, Mother. She’s sorry, it can be fixed, no one was hurt. Bella, are you listening to this?”

“Shut up, Mia.” Bellatrix’s voice was a lazy drawl. “You’re right, Mother. I torched your life. So where are you sending me, I wonder? Jail?”

Druella looked genuinely offended at the idea. “No child of mine is a criminal, no matter how insolent! You need help. You’re going to rehab, maybe a. ..hospital after that.” She turned to her sister-in-law and added, “There’s always one, I suppose. Yes, Walburga?”

Lyra’s mother sighed. “You must be right. At least we’ve got the others, though.”

Lyra scanned the table. No one was eating much, too engrossed in the discussion to notice their food, or her. Reg looked tired. Narcissa, wearing a lacy nightgown that Lyra suspected had been hers a decade ago, studied her lap intently.

She turned and left. Breakfast wasn’t worth this. James wouldn’t be up yet, but she could scan the woods for cool rocks until it was late enough to join him for waffles. Mrs. Potter always made waffles on weekends. Lyra’s mother thought they were the trashy version of pancakes.

One more week to freedom.


End file.
